I was twenty-three when I realized Santa Barbara had completely and irrevocably spoiled me. Not just in the sunshine-and-salt-air kind of way that comes with growing up in a town where every day looks like a postcard, but in a more profound way that shaped how I approach relationships, connection, and the ever-elusive notion of “home.”

When people hear “Santa Barbara,” they think of glamorous weddings, Kardashians sipping rosé on yachts, or Oprah’s backyard (yes, Montecito’s technically Santa Barbara, but try saying that to our zip code purists). But for me, it’s less about the Instagrammable opulence and more about the way this place taught me to notice details: the way lavender perfumes the air at dusk, how pelicans glide seamlessly over waves, or how the right person can feel like a sunset you didn’t realize you needed to stop and watch.

The unspoken lesson in all of this? That where you grow up shapes how you love. Because Santa Barbara taught me not just what to look for—in nature, in a partner, in myself—but how to look closely.

The Indigo Couch That Started It All

Let me set the scene: my family’s deck overlooked an expanse of California chaparral that rolled into the sparkling Pacific in the distance. It’s the kind of place that screams, “Who needs therapy when you’ve got this view?” But what truly defined our home wasn’t the ocean view; it was the old indigo couch that sat smack in the middle of the breezy living room. It was where my parents would host their weekly fundraiser planning meetings or, more often, their “Chris, let’s talk about your future” interventions.

One such night, in high school, as I sprawled on said couch with books splayed open—half-reading Whitman, half-flipping through surf magazines—my dad offhandedly shared advice I didn’t yet know I’d carry into adulthood. “Always pay attention to what brings someone joy,” he said, gesturing toward my mom, who was elbow-deep in flower arrangements for an upcoming gala. “When you show people you see them, really see them, love becomes effortless.”

At sixteen, this flew over my head. But ten years later, while sitting in an overpriced café in Los Angeles trying to explain to a first date why I didn’t binge-watch reality TV, it clicked: this upbringing taught me to value depth. My parent's love—and that indigo couch nestled in our lovely, eucalyptus-fragrant home—laid the blueprint for finding connections rooted in attentiveness.

Santa Barbara Rules for Dating (and Life)

Growing up in a place where flip-flops are socially acceptable at five-star restaurants and sunsets feel wildly intimate (oh, you watched it from Butterfly Beach? Same), Santa Barbara has its own unspoken life rules. These rules cling to you, influencing the way you date, argue, love, and recover from heartbreak. Here’s what I’ve learned—and how you can apply it, regardless of where you come from:

1. Go Full Ocean Vibes: Learn to Relax, Already.

Santa Barbara life is slow—like, “is the café closed or has no one bothered to unlock it yet?” slow. It’s about leaning into the moment, stretching minutes like saltwater taffy.

I’ve found the same is true in dating. We’re conditioned to rush things, to get to “relationship milestones” as if they’re destinations on some invisible life map. But love, much like a perfect beach day, cannot be forced. The best relationships—and the best conversations—come when you stop fixating on what’s next and kick back with a little mental sunscreen. If a first date doesn’t immediately “wow” you, schedule a second round. Chemistry bubbles up unexpectedly, like warm seawater over your toes at low tide. Let it breathe.

2. There’s Always a Marine Layer (AKA, Everything Isn’t As Perfect as It Seems).

You know how tourists wake up expecting a July beach day and instead walk into a gray wall of fog? A little something we locals lovingly call the “May Gray” or “June Gloom.” It’s temporary, but it teaches you not to trust appearances.

Dating works the same way. I’ve met people who, on paper, looked like the ideal sunrise-without-the-fog scenario: candlelit dinners, intellectual banter, shared disdain for texting “LOL.” But within a week, cracks appeared—a reluctance to call their mom back, vague hostility toward dogs(?!). Point is, perfection is an illusion. Look deeper (remember my dad's advice?), and decide what imperfections matter to you.

3. Bring Something to the Table—Be It Snacks or Vulnerability.

Growing up in a community where potlucks dominated most social occasions, you learn that if you show up empty-handed, you’re probably not getting invited back. Dating works the same way: you have to contribute, whether it’s your humor, your emotional availability, or your willingness to split an order of fries even when you “don’t want fries.”

Relationships thrive when both people bring something to the table. It’s about leaning into reciprocity. And for God’s sake, always ask if they want ketchup.

The Tide Always Turns

Of course, it wasn’t all perfect growth and beachside revelations. Growing up in paradise still had its share of thunderstorms. After a particularly painful breakup in my mid-twenties—one that had me swear off dating entirely (always a bad move when you live in a small-town microcosm of ex encounters)—I started taking long solo walks at Hendry’s Beach during low tide. The rhythmic pull of the ocean mirrored something comforting: even when I felt stuck, life moved forward. Heartaches subside, sand smooths over, new chapters emerge.

One day, I saw a dad crouching next to his toddler, pointing out sand crabs burrowing near the shoreline. The look of wonder on the kid’s face? That’s the kind of connection I want to build—not something glossy or without struggle, but something rooted in curiosity and awe.

Conclusion: Love the Place Before You Love the Person

Santa Barbara taught me that love begins with place: in observing where you are, finding beauty in the everyday, and understanding how your surroundings shape what you want to give—and what you hope to receive. Whether you grew up in the gentle lull of waves or the constant buzz of a city skyline, look for someone who feels like the natural extension of where you’ve been and where you’re headed.

And for those moments when love feels hard to find? Settle yourself in a place you love—a favorite coffee shop, a park, a coastline—and start noticing. Whether it’s sand crabs, lavender breezes, or the way someone lights up in conversation, there’s magic in simply paying attention. That, and never underestimate the power of an indigo couch.